Without a Parachute
by Anti-Social-Turtle
Summary: Bosco remembers something that happened one cold day.


Disclaimer: not mine. Just the plot. Go away. Don't bother me.  
  
A/N: this idea just popped into my head while arguing with my parents.  
  
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"You know those stories you hear on the news? Those sob stories about a skydiver who has jumped out'a thirty-somethin' planes and nothin's ever happened; nothin's ever gone wrong. Then they decide one day to make this flight their last. And then irony comes and bites'em on the ass. They still jumped from the plane, like every other flight of their lives, but this time was different. That's how I feel. Somethin's different, and suddenly. . .my parachute won't open. . ."  
  
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"Think we could go get some coffee?" Monroe's sitting next to me in the RMP; rubbin' her hands together to get'em warm. Today New York City reached a record low of one degree Fahrenheit. So of course, that's the day our heater gives out.  
  
"Yeah, sure," I pull the squad car over and pull the keys out of the ignition. I slip the cold metal instruments into my right pants pocket, and turn to see Monroe joinin' me.  
  
I open the door to the corner coffee shop, and again it is cold. Everythin' is cold today. I let Monroe go in first and I follow close behind, lettin' the cold door swing close.  
  
"God could it get any colder?" I ask hypothetically. Monroe seems agitated and I knew I should have just kept my mouth shut.  
  
"Do you ever have anything positive to say, Bosco?" she raises her voice just a little but its still only hardly above a whisper, "besides the temperature, its been a pretty good day."  
  
"You kiddin' me? I am ALWAYS positive," I say sarcastically. She gives me a death stare and I turn to order my coffee. A double caramel latte` to be exact.  
  
"You? Positive? You're the most bigoted, homophobic, anti-social person I have ever met on the job, and that's saying a lot Bosco," her statement is much less then sardonic. You'd think after bein' partners with me, that she'd learn a little sarcastic sense of humor.  
  
"Oh, harsh Sasha, that was low," I say in mock horror. I pull my hand down from my chest and grab the coffee I order; "I'll meet you in the RMP."  
  
Before I have a chance to push the cold door open again, the radio sounds.  
  
"All units responding, 10-13, shots fired, we have officers needing assistance," I exchange glances with Monroe.  
  
She pulls ten dollars out of her pocket, slamming it on the table, "Keep the change!"  
  
I throw my coffee in the garbage and my hand meets the chilly handle of the door again. I retrieve the keys from my pocket and jump in the RMP. I find myself pulling out of the lot before her door's even closed and I hear her radio in, "10-4 central, 55-David responding."  
  
We arrive to chaos. 55-Charlie is parked crookedly outside the apartment, the lights still blinkin', but the car abandoned, "55-Charlie, radio your position!" I yell. Then Monroe nudges me, elbows me right in the stomach. I turn around to tell her now isn't the time, but she isn't lookin' at me. She's lookin' across the street, two complexes over. 55-Crime is parked, completely covered in bullet holes, but I don't see Cruz.  
  
Time seemed to go in slow-mo. You know how on a movie, the dramatic music plays and your heart starts poundin' when the good guy's runnin'? I can tell Monroe is on the CBC trying to get a hold of Ty and Sully, but I can't here her words. All I hear is the poundin' of my heart.  
  
The dramatic music gets louder and you know the good guy is about to kick it, then. . . they find the real prey.  
  
I see Cruz lying on the ground outside the passenger side door, propped up against it.  
  
"Oh shit," I know what I will find, or rather what I won't find, but as I reach up to touch her neck I feel my hand tremble.  
  
Not out of cold, or fear, but I'm torn up inside. I touch her neck and feel nothing but cold skin, her cold, empty eyes are glued on me and I just stare into the hollowness of'em.  
  
Monroe comes up behind me and I hear her panting, catching her breath, she doesn't see the body yet, "Uh Bosco, 55-Charlie has the perp in custody. . ." she trailed off as soon as Cruz came into view, "oh god."  
  
Her hand flies to her mouth, but again my heart is pounding, I know she's saying something but I wish she would stop. I want it all to stop.  
  
I can't take my hand off her neck, its like me sittin' there is gunna will her to live again. It wasn't, Maritza Cruz was dead, cold and dead. . .  
  
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"And in that moment, I realize. . . I never had a parachute. . ."  
  
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THE END 


End file.
